TOM JONES
PART 27
Chapter iv. — Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal disesteem and hatred.
The lady
had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the waiting-woman returned to the
kitchen to regale with some of those dainties which her mistress had refused.
The
company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect which they had before
paid to her mistress, by rising; but she forgot to imitate her, by desiring
them to sit down again. Indeed, it was scarce possible they should have done
so, for she placed her chair in such a posture as to occupy almost the whole
fire. She then ordered a chicken to be broiled that instant, declaring, if it
was not ready in a quarter of an hour, she would not stay for it. Now, though
the said chicken was then at roost in the stable, and required the several
ceremonies of catching, killing, and picking, before it was brought to the
gridiron, my landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all within the
time; but the guest, being unfortunately admitted behind the scenes, must have
been witness to the fourberie; the poor woman was therefore obliged to
confess that she had none in the house; “but, madam,” said she, “I can get any
kind of mutton in an instant from the butcher’s.”
“Do you
think, then,” answered the waiting-gentlewoman, “that I have the stomach of a
horse, to eat mutton at this time of night? Sure you people that keep inns
imagine your betters are like yourselves. Indeed, I expected to get nothing at
this wretched place. I wonder my lady would stop at it. I suppose none but
tradesmen and grasiers ever call here.” The landlady fired at this indignity
offered to her house; however, she suppressed her temper, and contented herself
with saying, “Very good quality frequented it, she thanked heaven!” “Don’t tell
me,” cries the other, “of quality! I believe I know more of people of quality
than such as you.—But, prithee, without troubling me with any of your
impertinence, do tell me what I can have for supper; for, though I cannot eat
horse-flesh, I am really hungry.” “Why, truly, madam,” answered the landlady,
“you could not take me again at such a disadvantage; for I must confess I have
nothing in the house, unless a cold piece of beef, which indeed a gentleman’s
footman and the post-boy have almost cleared to the bone.” “Woman,” said Mrs
Abigail (so for shortness we will call her), “I entreat you not to make me
sick. If I had fasted a month, I could not eat what had been touched by the
fingers of such fellows. Is there nothing neat or decent to be had in this
horrid place?” “What think you of some eggs and bacon, madam?” said the
landlady. “Are your eggs new laid? are you certain they were laid to-day? and
let me have the bacon cut very nice and thin; for I can’t endure anything
that’s gross.—Prithee try if you can do a little tolerably for once, and don’t
think you have a farmer’s wife, or some of those creatures, in the house.”—The
landlady began then to handle her knife; but the other stopt her, saying, “Good
woman, I must insist upon your first washing your hands; for I am extremely
nice, and have been always used from my cradle to have everything in the most
elegant manner.”
The
landlady, who governed herself with much difficulty, began now the necessary
preparations; for as to Susan, she was utterly rejected, and with such disdain,
that the poor wench was as hard put to it to restrain her hands from violence
as her mistress had been to hold her tongue. This indeed Susan did not
entirely; for, though she literally kept it within her teeth, yet there it
muttered many “marry-come-ups, as good flesh and blood as yourself;” with other
such indignant phrases.
While the
supper was preparing, Mrs Abigail began to lament she had not ordered a fire in
the parlour; but, she said, that was now too late. “However,” said she, “I have
novelty to recommend a kitchen; for I do not believe I ever eat in one before.”
Then, turning to the post-boys, she asked them, “Why they were not in the
stable with their horses? If I must eat my hard fare here, madam,” cries she to
the landlady, “I beg the kitchen may be kept clear, that I may not be
surrounded with all the blackguards in town: as for you, sir,” says she to
Partridge, “you look somewhat like a gentleman, and may sit still if you
please; I don’t desire to disturb anybody but mob.”
“Yes, yes,
madam,” cries Partridge, “I am a gentleman, I do assure you, and I am not so
easily to be disturbed. Non semper vox casualis est verbo nominativus.”
This Latin she took to be some affront, and answered, “You may be a gentleman,
sir; but you don’t show yourself as one to talk Latin to a woman.” Partridge
made a gentle reply, and concluded with more Latin; upon which she tossed up
her nose, and contented herself by abusing him with the name of a great
scholar.
The supper
being now on the table, Mrs Abigail eat very heartily for so delicate a person;
and, while a second course of the same was by her order preparing, she said,
“And so, madam, you tell me your house is frequented by people of great
quality?”
The
landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, “There were a great many very good
quality and gentlefolks in it now. There’s young Squire Allworthy, as that
gentleman there knows.”
“And pray
who is this young gentleman of quality, this young Squire Allworthy?” said
Abigail.
“Who
should he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and heir of the great Squire
Allworthy, of Somersetshire!”
“Upon my
word,” said she, “you tell me strange news; for I know Mr Allworthy of
Somersetshire very well, and I know he hath no son alive.”
The
landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked a little confounded.
However, after a short hesitation, he answered, “Indeed, madam, it is true,
everybody doth not know him to be Squire Allworthy’s son; for he was never
married to his mother; but his son he certainly is, and will be his heir too,
as certainly as his name is Jones.” At that word, Abigail let drop the bacon
which she was conveying to her mouth, and cried out, “You surprize me, sir! Is
it possible Mr Jones should be now in the house?” “Quare non?” answered
Partridge, “it is possible, and it is certain.”
Abigail
now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal, and then repaired back to
her mistress, when the conversation passed which may be read in the next
chapter.
Chapter v. — Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid, were.
As in the
month of June, the damask rose, which chance hath planted among the lilies,
with their candid hue mixes his vermilion; or as some playsome heifer in the
pleasant month of May diffuses her odoriferous breath over the flowery meadows;
or as, in the blooming month of April, the gentle, constant dove, perched on
some fair bough, sits meditating on her mate; so, looking a hundred charms and
breathing as many sweets, her thoughts being fixed on her Tommy, with a heart
as good and innocent as her face was beautiful, Sophia (for it was she herself)
lay reclining her lovely head on her hand, when her maid entered the room, and,
running directly to the bed, cried, “Madam—madam—who doth your ladyship think
is in the house?” Sophia, starting up, cried, “I hope my father hath not
overtaken us.” “No, madam, it is one worth a hundred fathers; Mr Jones himself
is here at this very instant.” “Mr Jones!” says Sophia, “it is impossible! I
cannot be so fortunate.” Her maid averred the fact, and was presently detached
by her mistress to order him to be called; for she said she was resolved to see
him immediately.
Mrs Honour
had no sooner left the kitchen in the manner we have before seen than the
landlady fell severely upon her. The poor woman had indeed been loading her
heart with foul language for some time, and now it scoured out of her mouth, as
filth doth from a mud-cart, when the board which confines it is removed.
Partridge likewise shovelled in his share of calumny, and (what may surprize
the reader) not only bespattered the maid, but attempted to sully the
lily-white character of Sophia herself. “Never a barrel the better herring,”
cries he, “Noscitur a socio, is a true saying. It must be confessed,
indeed, that the lady in the fine garments is the civiller of the two; but I
warrant neither of them are a bit better than they should be. A couple of Bath
trulls, I’ll answer for them; your quality don’t ride about at this time o’
night without servants.” “Sbodlikins, and that’s true,” cries the landlady, “you
have certainly hit upon the very matter; for quality don’t come into a house
without bespeaking a supper, whether they eat or no.”
While they
were thus discoursing, Mrs Honour returned and discharged her commission, by
bidding the landlady immediately wake Mr Jones, and tell him a lady wanted to
speak with him. The landlady referred her to Partridge, saying, “he was the
squire’s friend: but, for her part, she never called men-folks, especially
gentlemen,” and then walked sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour applied herself
to Partridge; but he refused, “for my friend,” cries he, “went to bed very
late, and he would be very angry to be disturbed so soon.” Mrs Honour insisted
still to have him called, saying, “she was sure, instead of being angry, that
he would be to the highest degree delighted when he knew the occasion.”
“Another time, perhaps, he might,” cries Partridge; “but non omnia possumus
omnes. One woman is enough at once for a reasonable man.” “What do you mean
by one woman, fellow?” cries Honour. “None of your fellow,” answered Partridge.
He then proceeded to inform her plainly that Jones was in bed with a wench, and
made use of an expression too indelicate to be here inserted; which so enraged
Mrs Honour, that she called him jackanapes, and returned in a violent hurry to
her mistress, whom she acquainted with the success of her errand, and with the
account she had received; which, if possible, she exaggerated, being as angry
with Jones as if he had pronounced all the words that came from the mouth of
Partridge. She discharged a torrent of abuse on the master, and advised her
mistress to quit all thoughts of a man who had never shown himself deserving of
her. She then ripped up the story of Molly Seagrim, and gave the most malicious
turn to his formerly quitting Sophia herself; which, I must confess, the
present incident not a little countenanced.
The
spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by concern to enable her to stop the
torrent of her maid. At last, however, she interrupted her, saying, “I never
can believe this; some villain hath belied him. You say you had it from his
friend; but surely it is not the office of a friend to betray such secrets.” “I
suppose,” cries Honour, “the fellow is his pimp; for I never saw so ill-looked
a villain. Besides, such profligate rakes as Mr Jones are never ashamed of
these matters.”
To say the
truth, this behaviour of Partridge was a little inexcusable; but he had not
slept off the effect of the dose which he swallowed the evening before; which
had, in the morning, received the addition of above a pint of wine, or indeed
rather of malt spirits; for the perry was by no means pure. Now, that part of
his head which Nature designed for the reservoir of drink being very shallow, a
small quantity of liquor overflowed it, and opened the sluices of his heart; so
that all the secrets there deposited run out. These sluices were indeed,
naturally, very ill-secured. To give the best-natured turn we can to his
disposition, he was a very honest man; for, as he was the most inquisitive of
mortals, and eternally prying into the secrets of others, so he very faithfully
paid them by communicating, in return, everything within his knowledge.
While
Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor what resolution
to take, Susan arrived with the sack-whey. Mrs Honour immediately advised her
mistress, in a whisper, to pump this wench, who probably could inform her of
the truth. Sophia approved it, and began as follows: “Come hither, child; now
answer me truly what I am going to ask you, and I promise you I will very well
reward you. Is there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young
gentleman, that——.” Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. “A young
gentleman,” cries Honour, “that came hither in company with that saucy rascal
who is now in the kitchen?” Susan answered, “There was.”—“Do you know anything
of any lady?” continues Sophia, “any lady? I don’t ask you whether she is
handsome or no; perhaps she is not; that’s nothing to the purpose; but do you
know of any lady?” “La, madam,” cries Honour, “you will make a very bad
examiner. Hark’ee, child,” says she, “is not that very young gentleman now in
bed with some nasty trull or other?” Here Susan smiled, and was silent. “Answer
the question, child,” says Sophia, “and here’s a guinea for you.”—“A guinea!
madam,” cries Susan; “la, what’s a guinea? If my mistress should know it I
shall certainly lose my place that very instant.” “Here’s another for you,”
says Sophia, “and I promise you faithfully your mistress shall never know it.”
Susan, after a very short hesitation, took the money, and told the whole story,
concluding with saying, “If you have any great curiosity, madam, I can steal
softly into his room, and see whether he be in his own bed or no.” She
accordingly did this by Sophia’s desire, and returned with an answer in the
negative.
Sophia now
trembled and turned pale. Mrs Honour begged her to be comforted, and not to
think any more of so worthless a fellow. “Why there,” says Susan, “I hope,
madam, your ladyship won’t be offended; but pray, madam, is not your ladyship’s
name Madam Sophia Western?” “How is it possible you should know me?” answered
Sophia. “Why that man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who is in the kitchen,
told about you last night. But I hope your ladyship is not angry with me.”
“Indeed, child,” said she, “I am not; pray tell me all, and I promise you I’ll
reward you.” “Why, madam,” continued Susan, “that man told us all in the
kitchen that Madam Sophia Western—indeed I don’t know how to bring it out.”—Here
she stopt, till, having received encouragement from Sophia, and being
vehemently pressed by Mrs Honour, she proceeded thus:—“He told us, madam,
though to be sure it is all a lie, that your ladyship was dying for love of the
young squire, and that he was going to the wars to get rid of you. I thought to
myself then he was a false-hearted wretch; but, now, to see such a fine, rich,
beautiful lady as you be, forsaken for such an ordinary woman; for to be sure
so she is, and another man’s wife into the bargain. It is such a strange
unnatural thing, in a manner.”
Sophia
gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would certainly be her friend if
she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor informed any one who she was,
dismissed the girl, with orders to the post-boy to get the horses ready
immediately.
Being now
left alone with her maid, she told her trusty waiting-woman, “That she never
was more easy than at present. I am now convinced,” said she, “he is not only a
villain, but a low despicable wretch. I can forgive all rather than his
exposing my name in so barbarous a manner. That renders him the object of my
contempt. Yes, Honour, I am now easy; I am indeed; I am very easy;” and then
she burst into a violent flood of tears.
After a
short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and assuring her maid that
she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an account that the horses were
ready, when a very extraordinary thought suggested itself to our young heroine,
by which Mr Jones would be acquainted with her having been at the inn, in a way
which, if any sparks of affection for her remained in him, would be at least
some punishment for his faults.
The reader
will be pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had the honour of being
more than once remembered already in this history. This muff, ever since the
departure of Mr Jones, had been the constant companion of Sophia by day, and
her bedfellow by night; and this muff she had at this very instant upon her
arm; whence she took it off with great indignation, and, having writ her name
with her pencil upon a piece of paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the
maid to convey it into the empty bed of Mr Jones, in which, if he did not find
it, she charged her to take some method of conveying it before his eyes in the
morning.
Then,
having paid for what Mrs Honour had eaten, in which bill was included an
account for what she herself might have eaten, she mounted her horse, and, once
more assuring her companion that she was perfectly easy, continued her journey.
Chapter vi. — Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
It was now
past five in the morning, and other company began to rise and come to the
kitchen, among whom were the serjeant and the coachman, who, being thoroughly
reconciled, made a libation, or, in the English phrase, drank a hearty cup
together.
In this
drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour of Partridge, who,
when the serjeant drank a health to King George, repeated only the word King;
nor could he be brought to utter more; for though he was going to fight against
his own cause, yet he could not be prevailed upon to drink against it.
Mr Jones,
being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he returned we must beg to
be excused from relating), summoned Partridge from this agreeable company, who,
after a ceremonious preface, having obtained leave to offer his advice,
delivered himself as follows:—
“It is,
sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may sometimes learn counsel
from a fool; I wish, therefore, I might be so bold as to offer you my advice,
which is to return home again, and leave these horrida bella, these
bloody wars, to fellows who are contented to swallow gunpowder, because they
have nothing else to eat. Now, everybody knows your honour wants for nothing at
home; when that’s the case, why should any man travel abroad?”
“Partridge,”
cries Jones, “thou art certainly a coward; I wish, therefore, thou wouldst
return home thyself, and trouble me no more.”
“I ask
your honour’s pardon,” cries Partridge; “I spoke on your account more than my
own; for as to me, Heaven knows my circumstances are bad enough, and I am so
far from being afraid, that I value a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such
thing, no more than a pop-gun. Every man must die once, and what signifies the
manner how? besides, perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a
leg. I assure you, sir, I was never less afraid in my life; and so, if your
honour is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in that case, I
wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way of travelling,
for a great gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here are two or three good
horses in the stable, which the landlord will certainly make no scruple of
trusting you with; but, if he should, I can easily contrive to take them; and,
let the worst come to the worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you
are going to fight in his cause.”
Now, as
the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and both dealt only in
small matters, he would never have attempted a roguery of this kind, had he not
imagined it altogether safe; for he was one of those who have more
consideration of the gallows than of the fitness of things; but, in reality, he
thought he might have committed this felony without any danger; for, besides
that he doubted not but the name of Mr Allworthy would sufficiently quiet the
landlord, he conceived they should be altogether safe, whatever turn affairs
might take; as Jones, he imagined, would have friends enough on one side, and
as his friends would as well secure him on the other.
When Mr
Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal, he very severely
rebuked him, and that in such bitter terms, that the other attempted to laugh
it off, and presently turned the discourse to other matters; saying, he
believed they were then in a bawdy house, and that he had with much ado
prevented two wenches from disturbing his honour in the middle of the night.
“Heyday!” says he, “I believe they got into your chamber whether I would or no;
for here lies the muff of one of them on the ground.” Indeed, as Jones returned
to his bed in the dark, he had never perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in
leaping into his bed, he had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge now took
up, and was going to put into his pocket, when Jones desired to see it. The
muff was so very remarkable, that our heroe might possibly have recollected it
without the information annexed. But his memory was not put to that hard
office; for at the same instant he saw and read the words Sophia Western upon
the paper which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a moment, and
he eagerly cried out, “Oh Heavens! how came this muff here?” “I know no more
than your honour,” cried Partridge; “but I saw it upon the arm of one of the
women who would have disturbed you, if I would have suffered them.” “Where are
they?” cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and laying hold of his cloaths. “Many
miles off, I believe, by this time,” said Partridge. And now Jones, upon
further enquiry, was sufficiently assured that the bearer of this muff was no
other than the lovely Sophia herself.
The
behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks, his words, his
actions, were such as beggar all description. After many bitter execrations on
Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he ordered the poor fellow, who was
frightened out of his wits, to run down and hire him horses at any rate; and a
very few minutes afterwards, having shuffled on his clothes, he hastened
down-stairs to execute the orders himself, which he had just before given.
But before
we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the kitchen, it will be necessary
to recur to what had there happened since Partridge had first left it on his
master’s summons.
The
serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish gentlemen
arose, and came downstairs; both complaining that they had been so often waked
by the noises in the inn, that they had never once been able to close their
eyes all night.
The coach
which had brought the young lady and her maid, and which, perhaps, the reader
may have hitherto concluded was her own, was, indeed, a returned coach
belonging to Mr King, of Bath, one of the worthiest and honestest men that ever
dealt in horse-flesh, and whose coaches we heartily recommend to all our
readers who travel that road. By which means they may, perhaps, have the
pleasure of riding in the very coach, and being driven by the very coachman,
that is recorded in this history.
The
coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr Maclachlan was going to
Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very moderate price. He was induced to
this by the report of the hostler, who said that the horse which Mr Maclachlan
had hired from Worcester would be much more pleased with returning to his
friends there than to prosecute a long journey; for that the said horse was
rather a two-legged than a four-legged animal.
Mr
Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman, and, at the
same time, persuaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of the fourth place in
the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his bones made more agreeable to him
than a horse; and, being well assured of meeting with his wife at Bath, he
thought a little delay would be of no consequence.
Maclachlan,
who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard that this lady came
from Chester, with the other circumstances which he learned from the hostler,
than it came into his head that she might possibly be his friend’s wife; and
presently acquainted him with this suspicion, which had never once occurred to
Fitzpatrick himself. To say the truth, he was one of those compositions which
nature makes up in too great a hurry, and forgets to put any brains into their
head.
Now it
happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never hit off a fault
themselves; but no sooner doth a dog of sagacity open his mouth than they
immediately do the same, and, without the guidance of any scent, run directly
forwards as fast as they are able. In the same manner, the very moment Mr
Maclachlan had mentioned his apprehension, Mr Fitzpatrick instantly concurred,
and flew directly up-stairs, to surprize his wife, before he knew where she
was; and unluckily (as Fortune loves to play tricks with those gentlemen who
put themselves entirely under her conduct) ran his head against several doors
and posts to no purpose. Much kinder was she to me, when she suggested that
simile of the hounds, just before inserted; since the poor wife may, on these
occasions, be so justly compared to a hunted hare. Like that little wretched
animal, she pricks up her ears to listen after the voice of her pursuer; like
her, flies away trembling when she hears it; and, like her, is generally
overtaken and destroyed in the end.
This was
not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless search, Mr
Fitzpatrick returned to the kitchen, where, as if this had been a real chace,
entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when the hounds are at a fault. He
was just alighted from his horse, and had many attendants at his heels.
Here,
reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some matters, which, if thou
dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to be. And this information
thou shalt receive in the next chapter.
Chapter vii. — In which are concluded the adventures that happened at the inn at Upton.
In the
first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other person than Squire
Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit of his daughter; and, had he
fortunately been two hours earlier, he had not only found her, but his niece
into the bargain; for such was the wife of Mr Fitzpatrick, who had run away
with her five years before, out of the custody of that sage lady, Madam
Western.
Now this
lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with Sophia; for,
having been waked by the voice of her husband, she had sent up for the
landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter, had bribed the good woman,
at an extravagant price, to furnish her with horses for her escape. Such
prevalence had money in this family; and though the mistress would have turned
away her maid for a corrupt hussy, if she had known as much as the reader, yet
she was no more proof against corruption herself than poor Susan had been.
Mr Western
and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed would the former have
taken any notice of the latter if he had known him; for, this being a stolen
match, and consequently an unnatural one in the opinion of the good squire, he
had, from the time of her committing it, abandoned the poor young creature, who
was then no more than eighteen, as a monster, and had never since suffered her
to be named in his presence.
The
kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western enquiring after his
daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his wife, when Jones entered the
room, unfortunately having Sophia’s muff in his hand.
As soon as
Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by sportsmen when their
game is in view. He then immediately run up and laid hold of Jones, crying, “We
have got the dog fox, I warrant the bitch is not far off.” The jargon which
followed for some minutes, where many spoke different things at the same time,
as it would be very difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to
read.
Jones
having, at length, shaken Mr Western off, and some of the company having
interfered between them, our heroe protested his innocence as to knowing
anything of the lady; when Parson Supple stepped up, and said, “It is folly to
deny it; for why, the marks of guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate
and bind it by an oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand belongeth unto
Madam Sophia; for I have frequently observed her, of later days, to bear it
about her.” “My daughter’s muff!” cries the squire in a rage. “Hath he got my
daughter’s muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him. I’ll have him
before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my daughter, villain?” “Sir,”
said Jones, “I beg you would be pacified. The muff, I acknowledge, is the young
lady’s; but, upon my honour, I have never seen her.” At these words Western
lost all patience, and grew inarticulate with rage.
Some of
the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr Western was. The good Irishman,
therefore, thinking he had now an opportunity to do an act of service to his
uncle, and by that means might possibly obtain his favour, stept up to Jones,
and cried out, “Upon my conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of denying your
having seen the gentleman’s daughter before my face, when you know I found you
there upon the bed together.” Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct
him immediately to the room where his daughter was; which offer being accepted,
he, the squire, the parson, and some others, ascended directly to Mrs Waters’s
chamber, which they entered with no less violence than Mr Fitzpatrick had done
before.
The poor
lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror, and beheld at her
bedside a figure which might very well be supposed to have escaped out of
Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the looks of Mr Western; who no
sooner saw the lady than he started back, shewing sufficiently by his manner,
before he spoke, that this was not the person sought after.
So much
more tenderly do women value their reputation than their persons, that, though
the latter seemed now in more danger than before, yet, as the former was
secure, the lady screamed not with such violence as she had done on the other
occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone than she abandoned all
thoughts of further repose; and, as she had sufficient reason to be
dissatisfied with her present lodging, she dressed herself with all possible
expedition.
Mr Western
now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little purpose as he had
disturbed poor Mrs Waters. He then returned disconsolate into the kitchen,
where he found Jones in the custody of his servants.
This
violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it was yet
scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who had the honour to be
in the commission of the peace for the county of Worcester. Of which Mr Western
was no sooner informed than he offered to lay his complaint before him. The
justice declined executing his office, as he said he had no clerk present, nor
no book about justice business; and that he could not carry all the law in his
head about stealing away daughters, and such sort of things.
Here Mr
Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing the company that he
had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he had served three years as
clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland, when, chusing a genteeler walk in
life, he quitted his master, came over to England, and set up that business
which requires no apprenticeship, namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had
succeeded, as hath been already partly mentioned.)
Mr
Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the present
case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and the goods being found
upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the fact.
The
magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and upon the
violent intercession of the squire, was at length prevailed upon to seat
himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon viewing the muff
which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the parson’s swearing it to be the
property of Mr Western, he desired Mr Fitzpatrick to draw up a commitment,
which he said he would sign.
Jones now
desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty, granted him. He then
produced the evidence of Mr Partridge, as to the finding it; but, what was
still more, Susan deposed that Sophia herself had delivered the muff to her,
and had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where Mr Jones had found it.
Whether a
natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of Jones, had wrought
on Susan to make the discovery, I will not determine; but such were the effects
of her evidence, that the magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair,
declared that the matter was now altogether as clear on the side of the
prisoner as it had before been against him: with which the parson concurred,
saying, the Lord forbid he should be instrumental in committing an innocent
person to durance. The justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and broke up
the court.
Mr Western
now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately ordering his
horses, departed in pursuit of his daughter, without taking the least notice of
his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any answer to his claim of kindred,
notwithstanding all the obligations he had just received from that gentleman.
In the violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his passion, he luckily forgot
to demand the muff of Jones: I say luckily; for he would have died on the spot
rather than have parted with it.
Jones
likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he had paid his
reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now resolved never more to
abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring himself even to take leave of Mrs
Waters; of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she had been, though not
designedly, the occasion of his missing the happiest interview with Sophia, to
whom he now vowed eternal constancy.
As for Mrs
Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was going to Bath; for
which place she set out in company with the two Irish gentlemen, the landlady
kindly lending her her cloaths; in return for which she was contented only to
receive about double their value, as a recompence for the loan. Upon the road
she was perfectly reconciled to Mr Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow,
and indeed did all she could to console him in the absence of his wife.
Thus ended
the many odd adventures which Mr Jones encountered at his inn at Upton, where
they talk, to this day, of the beauty and lovely behaviour of the charming
Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire angel.
To be continued
